


Rage

by dendriticgold



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriticgold/pseuds/dendriticgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU S3 which inverts the power balance between Thomas and Jimmy; leaving us with an older, bullying/manipulative Jimmy and a wide-eyed young dork of a Thomas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage

Thomas’s tired eyes brightened as he entered the servant’s hall through the side door to find everyone stood stock still, staring at some spectacle by the main door; his mind, unstimulated in the slightest by the completion of his morning tasks, immediately conjured eager mischievous fantasies of the various mishaps which might have led to such awe and attention. An argument between Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes perhaps? (An uncommon occurrence, at least publicly, but an event that unequivocally spelled entertainment of the highest order.) Something spilled or dropped in the doorway by a member of staff? (Which would, Thomas mused, be a most welcome development to pull focus from the plate that _he_ had been reproached for accidentally breaking the previous evening.) One of the Crawley family making a rare appearance to warn them of the imminent arrival of some particularly important visitor? (Not that it would make much difference to him, but he could at least draw some enjoyment from watching the panic of preparation necessary for members of staff more ‘visible’ to the Upstairs.) Perhaps some messenger with urgent and catastrophic news? (Not too catastrophic, Thomas hoped, but anything that promised a reprieve from the crushing boredom of brushing down over a dozen fireplaces in the course of a single morning was welcome.)

For the briefest fraction of a second Thomas’s brow creased in confusion and annoyance to find that the spectacle consisted of no more than a single man standing cap in hand in the doorway; before, to his surprise, he found himself rendered as speechless and rapt as the rest.

The young man was a negligible amount of years his elder, and there were barely a few inches of height difference between them. Nevertheless, Thomas immediately, without consciously thinking on it, mentally recognised the man as his admirable superior. Besides the man’s unusually good looks and proportions (a man built to be _seen_ if ever there was one), Thomas’s sharp scrutiny, fuelled by hungrily peaked interest for the new, recognised a stubborn sense of assurance poorly concealed behind the young man’s humble tentativeness; a promise of justifiable arrogance (a quality frequently the subject of Thomas’s personal strives) and charisma to come. Whatever the man was there to do, Thomas suddenly wanted for nothing else in the world than the chance to watch him do it.

 

‘Who’s this?’ Thomas exclaimed inelegantly in the maddening silence; knowing that in his capacity as hall boy his role was to be neither seen nor heard in _both_ the Upstairs and the Down, but unable to summon the patience to wait for a more ‘qualified’ member of staff to explain of their own violation.

‘Jimmy Kent.’ The man said, evidently willing to overlook the presumption of a lowly hall boy for the sake of being given the opportunity to formally introduce himself. ‘At your service.’

Thomas had not the slightest doubt that Jimmy’s final words were for the benefit of the assembled group of staff ( _‘Oh bless the handsome young thing for humouring that rude, presumptuous, Thomas…’_ ) rather than his own; something which only served to heighten his interest and oddly strong sense of immediate respect and admiration for the stranger.

‘I’m Thomas.’ He offered, ignoring the disapproving looks he could feel prickling at the back of his neck, trying to emulate Jimmy’s well-spoken manner and ease of delivery. ‘Hall boy to this household.’

‘And I hope to join it as footman.’ Jimmy replied, the expression in his eyes and his posture carefully balanced to signal to the room’s occupants that he felt himself unworthy, albeit _fully_ capable, of operating in such a capacity. While his smile seemed to be for Thomas alone.

Thomas returned it; realising a little too late, perhaps a little too eagerly.

Mrs Hughes’s abrupt arrival broke the moment before Thomas’s chalky complexion could muster appropriate streaks of red to accompany his embarrassment, and he scurried quickly on his way back to the storage cupboards behind the kitchens; both fearing and hoping he hadn’t seen the last of Jimmy.

**

Only one other candidate was interviewed for the post of footman that day, at least as far as Thomas could tell in passing while up to his elbows (for the most part literally) in work.

He waited with painful impatience for the announcement to be made at dinner as to whom had been successful; absolutely convinced it _ought_ to be Jimmy, but not sufficiently trusting to Carson’s judgement to make the best decision for the household to be sure. However, Thomas thought darkly as he watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye, even if Carson picked the stodgy man instead of Jimmy it would still be an improvement on his previous hire.

There was no announcement. And frustratingly, despite their evident curiosity, none of the other staff members elected to prompt Carson into discussing the matter. From his vantage point, as physically far removed as it was possible to be down the other end of the table from Carson’s headship, Thomas knew he would be on shaky ground to attempt to force the question himself.

**

A so often happens, it was at precisely the moment that Thomas forgot the question that the answer presented itself.

Later the next day, too preoccupied with cursing his lot in life, Carson, and the inventor of white cotton fabric, as he traipsed to the uniform store room with the last of the stacks of spare shirts (shirts he was compelled to keep semi-freshly laundered and pressed just in case Downton suffered a sudden unexpected influx of twenty or so men all in need of clothing) having spent the earlier part of the day working over the ‘just in case’ pillowcases, bed sheets and tablecloths, the thought of Jimmy was quite gone from his mind at the moment when Thomas pushed aside the partially open door of the uniform store room with his elbow to discover that he was not alone.

Transfixed by the bare shoulders of the interloper, who stood turned away from him, fumbling his way into a shirt, Thomas very nearly dropped those _he_ was carrying in surprise.

Thomas recognised the brassy-gold sheen of his hair immediately; it was Jimmy.

Thomas was caught frozen, a veritable deer in headlights, as a startled Jimmy turned about to face him. For a moment Thomas stood there, gawking, mouth open, mind blank, shirts balanced uselessly on his outstretched hands, wondering whether it would be proper for him to speak, or if he ought to just quickly throw the shirts onto the nearby shelf and leave.

When Jimmy failed to turn away from him to indicate disinterest, nor to rush to cover himself up to suggest a wish for privacy (granted he _did_ draw the shirt up to his shoulders, thus concealing the majority of his exposed chest, but paid no mind to the wide corridor of contoured flesh still showing at the open shirt-front), Thomas felt himself sufficiently emboldened to overcome his nerves to speak.

‘You got the job then?’ He said, his lips forming an unhabitually wide smile all by themselves.

‘I’m on my way, Thomas.’ Jimmy replied, his voice warm yet measured, offering back a far more subdued and sly smile in response.

Thomas’s heart leapt; _there_ was the confidence and command he had recognised behind Jimmy’s show of humility the day before. The proof of it thrilled him.

‘I should like to be a footman one day.’ Thomas heard himself say in an earnest (and consequently highly unfamiliar) voice.

Something akin to a gasp emitted itself from his mouth at the realisation he had not only openly shared a personal ‘want’ with an almost complete stranger (unheard of in the history of Thomas Barrow) but quite possibly overstepped the proper boundaries of familiarity with a superior in doing so unprompted.

His eyes settled on a particularly fascinating floorboard and stayed there.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t apply for this post...I’d imagine they’d be happy to take on someone who already knows the house.’ Jimmy’s words were spoken kindly, pleasantly, almost jovially, but with an undeniable hint of smugness at _his_ having been the one taken on. Thomas wasn’t sure which aspect had stirred the warmth that rose in his breast, thankful for the partial and oblique compliment while at the same time glad to see that his high regard for Jimmy was matched by the latter’s irresistible inherent faith in himself; but he _was_ certain of his delight at the confident and awe inspiring young man thinking him worth speaking to.

‘I’m not very popular here…’ Once again Thomas found himself compelled to speak before thinking, as though afraid that a hesitation of a few seconds would have Jimmy evaporating in exasperated boredom into a puff of smoke and breezing away beyond his reach.

Although it occurred to Thomas, as he snapped his mouth shut in disbelief at what he had said, Jimmy leaving in boredom would have been infinitely preferable to him leaving in amused yet wholly disinterested pity at Thomas’s admission.

Thomas hadn’t realised how eager he was for a friend (to be _Jimmy’s_ friend) until that moment immediately following his inadvertent revelation of information that would make a right-thinking newcomer think twice before pursuing any kind of association.

‘Well I’m not one to be bound by what other people think.’ Said Jimmy resolutely, turning away to continue grappling with the open shirt.

Somehow Thomas managed to get the shirts onto the shelf and get himself out into the corridor before letting his relief and euphoria at Jimmy’s throwaway comment show on his face.

**

Thomas lingered for as long as he dared outside the kitchens that night, coal bucket in hand _en route_ to the yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jimmy coming down after his first dinner service.

He had performed a similar manoeuvre several hours earlier in order to see Jimmy going _up_ to his first dinner service. And he hadn’t been disappointed.

Jimmy had taken command of the meat dish, Thomas had _known_ he would, and swept out the kitchen with a poise, grace and presence more befitting of a member of the family rather than one of their staff.

Earlier that day, Thomas had amused himself with fantasies of hiding inside the fireplace, back pressed against the wall in the darkness, to enable him to spy on Jimmy serving the Crawleys for the first time; equal parts a desire to see how the family received him, and to simply _see_ him. But such a plan carried far too many risks and potential foibles to be seriously thought upon.

So he waited for Jimmy to come down.

At length his patience was rewarded, although his gaze met Jimmy in the grips of a decidedly sour and dark mood, rather than the triumphant glowing return Thomas had anticipated.

After a few terse words with Carson, words Thomas couldn’t catch no matter how much he strained his ears (constrained by the need to keep his distance to stay out of Carson’s notice, lest he be immediately ordered to be on his way), Jimmy retreated to the kitchen, still scowling, with Alfred in tow.

‘He’s nice isn’t he?’ Said O’Brien, smiling sweetly as she caught Thomas watching in concern and curiosity as Jimmy spoke angrily to Alfred.

Thomas tensed. The two of them hadn’t seen eye to eye since his ill-conceived attempts to sabotage Alfred for the crime of being picked as footman over his own attempts to be promoted several months earlier (something he strangely didn’t find he could resent as far as Jimmy was concerned; there was no doubt in Thomas’s mind that, unlike Alfred, Jimmy _deserved_ every bit of it).

‘What makes you say that?’ He replied, prickly and defensive. Instantly wary. Having known O’Brien long and intimately enough to recognise the precariousness of his current position, i.e. on her ‘bad’ side, and thus eager to exercise all possible precautions to keep her from getting wind of _anything_ she could use to hurt him.

‘Just an impression.’ She said, casual and light, and walked on.

**

‘It’s always a good idea to be prepared.’ Said Jimmy, forcing himself to appear interested in the painfully pleasant and (given the general path of a life in service) irrelevant discussion regarding the place one should choose to birth a baby. He couldn’t care less. He was bored.

But he was also painfully aware that the staff at Downton did not seem to be warming to him the way he had thought they would, and consequently jumped on any opportunity for participation in group discussions to demonstrate his sharp wit and sage knowledge; with as little personal inconvenience to himself as possible.

So he tossed out the comment, hoping to simultaneously reassure Ivy (publicly impressing with his benevolence) and also to put something of an end to that particular discussion that held no interest for him whatsoever.

He wanted to make himself visible. One of them.

‘I expect you’re always prepared.’

Jimmy looked over in surprise. He recognised Thomas immediately as the one who had spoken.

He was glad to have someone showing genuine interest in him (there hadn’t been much of that since his first day. Apart from Ivy, but Jimmy didn’t count her), even if it _was_ just the bright-eyed hall boy, and delighted at the prospect of turning the conversation to himself.

‘I try to be, Thomas.’ Jimmy said, a mischievous glint in his eyes and smile arising irresistibly from nowhere as he answered Thomas.

Thomas beamed back at him, and for a moment all other occupants of the room faded from Jimmy’s awareness as he noted the pleasing sense of wonder and delight on Thomas’s face at having been directly addressed.

‘I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking.’ Carson tersely asserted from the other end of the table, looking disapprovingly between the two of them.

Jimmy redirected his gaze to the table top, ferociously chastising himself internally. Making mischief with a hall boy (although, truth be told, Jimmy wasn’t sure quite why he had felt the urge to _be_ mischievous) was not likely to help him ingratiate himself with the rest of the staff.

He pressed his fingernails against the palm of his hand under the table, embarrassed at Carson’s reproach, _willing_ the blush away from his cheeks.

And he had been trying so hard.

He glanced darkly across the table, deciding with conviction that the hall boy was to blame. It was his fault. If Thomas hadn’t been so attentive, practically _goading_ him into an indiscretion, then he would _never_ have spoken like that. And he wouldn’t be (once again) in the doghouse as far as Mr Carson was concerned.

He resolved to not speak to Thomas again.

Bloody Thomas, Jimmy thought to himself. Bloody Carson, bloody family, bloody idiots…

**

Jimmy’s resolve didn’t last long. As his dissatisfaction, dislike, and frustration at being generally overlooked by the rest of the household grew, he found himself actually seeking Thomas’s company to perk himself up. A few words with Thomas always worked well to remind Jimmy that he was a remarkable and admirable man who deserved to be respected, an antidote against the negativity and indifference he found in almost all other quarters.

Downton was not turning out at all as it should be.

Eager to gain any semblance of advantage in the competition for the post of first footman (apparently not as foregone a conclusion as Jimmy had anticipated) Jimmy was left far more excited than he should have been when Mr Carson took him aside one morning to deliver the simple instruction to tend to the winding of the clocks.

Instantly recognising the task as one sufficiently skilled and grand as to indicate a first footman’s workload, Jimmy left Mr Carson’s office with a powerful sense of satisfaction.

He was happy to chance upon Miss O’Brien in the corridor as he walked; desperately needing someone, anyone, to share in his triumph.

‘Mr Carson has asked me to wind the clocks.’ He said with the deepest humility. Eager that she might be impressed by his modesty while at the same time being in no doubt as to the great honour done to him by the order.

Something deep inside his heart glowed exuberantly as she corroborated, unprompted, the notion that being asked to wind the clocks marked him out as first footman and proceeded to congratulate him warmly.

‘If you’re feeling charitable you might take Thomas with you to show him the ropes.’ Miss O’Brien remarked as they parted ways. ‘It’s unlikely to be anything he’ll need to know for a few years, but I know he’d appreciate the chance to see how a real first footman works.’

Jimmy smiled broadly to himself as she walked away, finding it very pleasing that Miss O’Brien should specify him as the ‘real’ first footman over Alfred, not the least bit surprised that Miss O’Brien should find him the finer of the pair, even if Alfred was he nephew.

Walking on air, Jimmy chanced upon Thomas labouring away in the boot shining room as he made his way to the stairs. He certainly had no intention of hunting Thomas out to invite him to accompany him. But as he was right there, en route by the side of the stairs, Jimmy decided he might as well be charitable. And it would be nice to have a witness to his performing the task; making it all the more palpable as an achievement.

‘Mr Carson’s asked me to wind the clocks.’ Jimmy announced loudly, dispensing with any semblance of false modesty.

‘Oh!’ Thomas knocked the small metal pot of shoe polish off the table in his surprise at Jimmy’s sudden appearance. He quickly dropped down to his hands and knees on the floor to chase after it, head and shoulders briefly disappearing under the table.

Quite of their own accord, Jimmy’s eyes traced absently over the straining trouser seams at Thomas’s read and thighs as he balanced himself on all fours, reaching for the rebellious polish pot.

‘I was wondering if you might like to come along with me? See how it’s done?’

‘Yes…I…’ Thomas extracted himself from under the table and sprang up to his feet, shoe polish clutched safely in hand. ‘…that would be wonderful Mr…Jimmy.’ Thomas hastily corrected himself; Jimmy’s regal bearing having led him to forget (and not for the first time) that he was addressing a footman rather than a valet or a butler.

‘Alright. But clean that grime off your hands first.’ Said Jimmy, indicating the smudges of polish along the side of Thomas’s hand and on the backs of his knuckles. ‘One dark mark left on the clock and you’ll be back on all fours and I’ll have a belt in my hand…’ Jimmy laughed.

And Thomas laughed obligingly along with him.

Jimmy found himself caught up in the imagery invoked by his (for the most part) idle threat for almost the entire journey up the stairs, even going so far as to miss his footing on several occasions; a double shame for such a thing to happen in front of a lowly hall boy.

Jimmy succeeded in wiping those particular thoughts from his mind by the time they reached the great hall, and was able to turn to Thomas with confidence and a smile as they stood in front of the largest of the grandfather clocks Downton had to offer to begin the impromptu lesson.

Before long, Thomas stood close by his side, on tiptoe to see over Jimmy’s right shoulder, resting the fingertips of both hands lightly on it to keep his balance as he watched the hypnotic motion of the cogs and springs turning, realigning and coiling under Jimmy’s ministrations.

Jimmy felt the warmth of him in his cheek and against his back, despite the few inches of space between them (save for Thomas’s hands at his shoulder), finding it increasingly hard to keep a cool head to teach as Thomas became increasingly absorbed and attentive.

‘Give us your hand then.’ Said Jimmy, stepping aside to motion for Thomas to move to stand in front of him.

For the lesson. No other reason.

Jimmy smiled wickedly at the look of horror on Thomas’s face at the idea of being permitted to touch the clock himself (or, more accurately, the little key sticking out from it’s face).

‘Give me your hand.’ Jimmy ordered firmly. ‘Nothing will go wrong. Don’t you trust me to help you?’

Clueless, and looking highly trepidatious, Thomas offered his hand out, palm upwards.

Jimmy rolled his eyes and took firm hold of Thomas’s hand. ‘Come on…’ He said, pushing at the small of Thomas’s back to manoeuvre him to stand between himself and the clock. ‘Now here…’ He said, guiding Thomas’s hand up to the key slot. ‘…you feel that?’ He asked, pushing Thomas’s hand a little against the key to turn it, demonstrating that it didn’t want to be turned, reassuring himself that he absolutely wasn’t crowding perilously (and, more importantly, unnecessarily) close to Thomas’s back in search of more of that warmth, that contact, that scent that had him turning his head inwards towards Thomas’s neck.

As the tip of his nose brushed the skin of Thomas’s neck, Jimmy awoke as if from a trance and sprang back as though burned.

‘Right…well…I think that’s everything.’ Said Jimmy, giving a vigorous cough to clear the lump that had manifested itself in his throat.

The lesson over, Thomas in his eagerness and gratitude took it upon himself to close the glass front of the clock.

Jimmy winced as he saw Thomas’s fingertips connect with the glass, and was already making a mental note to send a maid up to take care of it before Thomas’s fingers even came away from the glass.

‘Oh my God!’ Thomas said, upon spying his handiwork.

‘Mmmm.’ Jimmy said dryly.

Thomas’s shock and Jimmy’s mock indignance quickly faded as both men burst into giggles at the strangely prophetic nature of Jimmy’s earlier warning regarding marks left on the clock.

Their giggles faded as they pondered what would soon be occurring had Jimmy actually been serious.

And wondered privately if perhaps they would have preferred it if Jimmy _had_ been serious.  

Though as to why, Thomas had no idea, however much he wondered.

While Jimmy on the other hand, knew precisely why, and expended all his energy trying to expel the thought from his mind.

Their eyes met, setting off a second round of laughter. This one far more nervous and unconvincing than the first.

Jimmy stopped immediately upon hearing the door open at the far side of the hall.

It was only Alfred passing through.

But Jimmy didn’t start laughing again.

**

‘Will you show me a card trick?’ Thomas asked Jimmy tentatively as they waited for news of Lady Sybil and the baby a few nights later.

Jimmy sighed internally, he had rather hoped that Thomas had realised by that point that the complete lack of conversation over the previous few days had been a deliberate move on his part; having consistently found somewhere _else_ to be whenever Thomas was in the vicinity. But here he was, trapped by Carson’s orders to stay put. As though whether or not he, Jimmy Kent, were asleep or awake would somehow affect the health of the baby in question.

The prospect of showing off his carefully honed card tricks _did_ however momentarily succeed in bringing a weak smile to his face, although it quickly fell again as a flustered Carson appeared in the doorway to announce that Sybil had delivered a healthy baby girl.

‘Good news!’ Thomas said enthusiastically.

Jimmy bristled a little as Thomas subtly maneuvered to put himself deliberately between him and the door, wondering if Thomas might take the hint better were he just to push past him rather than linger for pointless small talk.

But Thomas’s words had him feeling rather _compelled_ to speak.

‘Do you like Lady Sybil?’ Said Jimmy, not liking the way the ground felt as though it had been moved from beneath his feet.

‘I do.’ Thomas beamed. ‘We worked together in the hospital during the war…’ Jimmy felt his heart relax and the floor at his feet return to it’s usual solid state. ‘…she’s a lovely person…’

‘Like you.’ Jimmy cut in sharply, reaching out to give a firm squeeze of Thomas’s upper arm, eager to break Thomas from his reverential and affectionate musings.

He found himself disinclined to share adulation.

He noticed Thomas glance down at the hand gripping his upper arm in surprise.

But he kept it there.

Kept it there with all the confidence and challenge with which he had taken the meat from under Alfred’s nose on his first day.

Kept it there as his unquestionable right.

Thomas didn’t protest, simply glancing bewilderedly from the hand to Jimmy’s face until Jimmy saw fit to release him; which he did, in a sudden wave of panic that he worked desperately hard to keep from his face.

Thomas nodded a very quick goodbye before beating a retreat that was a little too hasty for Jimmy’s liking out of the servant’s hall.

Jimmy watched him go. To say he was shocked and shaken by his own lapse would have been a _severe_ understatement. His mind was so preoccupied that he quite failed to notice Miss O’Brien’s presence until it was too late to re-set his facial expression.

‘Anything the matter?’ She said gently.

‘No…’ Jimmy said, a hint of chill and panic running through his body at the realisation she may have been watching him a few moments ago. ‘It’s just…Thomas is just so…familiar all the time, isn’t he?’ Said Jimmy with a frown. ‘Always following me, talking to me…I’m sorry to say it’s becoming quite an annoyance.’

‘You can’t blame the poor thing for wanting to be near you.’ Said Miss O’Brien sagely. ‘If you ask me he’s doing what anyone should in his position; look to his superior for example and guidance. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge him his choice of role model?’

‘No.’ Said Jimmy. ‘Certainly not.’ He said, offering what was meant to be a confident smile. ‘But sometimes I’d like to ask him to keep his distance.’

‘Do you want to get the poor thing sacked then?’ Said Miss O’Brien, suddenly sharp and judgemental, her face twisted in astonishment that anyone could be so harsh and heartless.

‘Of course not.’ Jimmy said quickly, wondering how on earth the conversation had managed to escalate quite so rapidly. ‘I should be on my way.’ He excused himself, finding upon exiting the servant’s hall that he had been unconsciously holding in his breath to the point of dizzying light-headedness.

**

Jimmy noticed Thomas leave the room after Mr Carson’s announcement of the death of Lady Sybil.

But he couldn’t follow Thomas.

No matter how lonely and small he looked.

Not with O’Brien watching him, not after what he’d said to her earlier.

He was glad when he saw Anna stepping tentatively after Thomas.

**

Then he angrily questioned _why_ he should be glad.

**

‘Cheer up Thomas. A long face won’t solve anything.’

Alfred’s mean stab at the pitiful figure cut by Thomas, sat hunched and sad at the table, his beige apron and shirt blending into the colour of the walls beside him, was an opportunity too good to be missed for Jimmy.

It wasn’t often that Alfred said something that was judged ‘wrong’ by consensus (while Jimmy, conversely, seemed incapable in the eyes of the others of saying _anything_ ‘right’) so Jimmy jumped at the chance to highlight Alfred’s cold insensitivity, his unfeeling callousness, by being the one to publicly extend the virtues of comfort and compassion.

‘I’d say your grief speaks well for her.’ Said Jimmy, smiling warmly.

There was a momentary pause as Thomas took in his words.

‘Thank you for saying that.’ Thomas said quietly.

Jimmy’s moment of triumph at the public demonstration of his own benevolence was cut short by the alarming feel of one of Thomas’s hands closing over his, squeezing it gently on it’s perch over his thigh.

Jimmy’s jaw hardened as he darted his eyes about to see if anyone had noticed.

It would appear no one had.

That was good.

But there was still the matter of Thomas holding his damn hand.

It was a light touch, a weak clasping, nothing as obvious and challenging as Jimmy’s grasping of Thomas’s arm after the news of Sybil having given birth. But Jimmy found himself enraged by it.

The smoothness of Thomas’s palm, worn by years of hard working, was cool and comforting over his hand; and Jimmy hated it.

Pulling away was likely to draw even more attention than the act itself, so he endeavoured to endure it.

He made a point of vacating the room as quickly as possible, without so much as a look towards Thomas, the second he was released from his grasp; reminding himself, for the umpteenth time, that he _really_ needed to start avoiding Thomas.

**

Despite his calculated coldness, Jimmy found that Thomas just wouldn’t be deterred.

Although, he thought bitterly, it was nice to have _someone_ at Downton to appreciate him.

As he sat at the piano in the servant’s hall expectantly, waiting for someone to ask him if he could play (preferably asking him _to_ play so that he could, with a due show of reluctance and modesty, astonish the assembled staff) once again no one took the bait, or even seemed remotely interested, but Thomas.

‘Are you going to give us a tune then?’ Said Thomas tentatively, coming to stand beside him at the piano.

Jimmy sighed internally, but fixed a winning smile on his face as he replied. ‘By all means. What sort of tune do you think would suit?’

‘Something happy.’ Said Thomas, giving a ghost of a smile in response.

Something in Jimmy’s breast ached painfully at the desolate look of lingering grief in Thomas’s eyes.

He sent his fingers quickly fluttering over the piano keys in an effort to dispel the feeling.

‘You play well James.’ Mrs Hughes warm tones echoed across the servant’s hall.

Jimmy smiled over his shoulder at her, happy that his efforts to be noticed (and applauded) were bearing fruit.

‘There’s no end to Jimmy’s talents.’ Said Thomas, ruining the moment by coming to stand just a little too close behind Jimmy as he peered over his shoulder at the music, as though willing the little black squiggles to make sense to him.

**

‘Do you think you could teach me?’

Jimmy jumped, fingers mashing the piano keys in surprise; having thought, given the late hour, that he was safe to sneak a little private practice at the piano in the servant’s hall that evening.

He was, however, not in the least bit surprised to turn about and find Thomas was the intruder.

‘I don’t really do teaching.’ Said Jimmy, keeping his voice pleasant but terse, swivelling back around to face the piano in what was _meant_ to be a dismissive gesture.

‘I play a little.’ Thomas persisted. ‘Perhaps we could play something together?’

Jimmy found himself somewhat intrigued by the idea of watching Thomas play.

With a slight frown, so that Thomas would fully appreciate the personal sacrifice Jimmy was making by indulging him, Jimmy shifted up on the piano stool, indicating for Thomas to squeeze on the end beside him.

Of course, he _could_ have simply suggested that Thomas pull up a chair…

‘The chairs are the wrong height, so you’ll have to sit by me.’ He heard himself saying to Thomas by way of justification.

The two of them were obliged to sit with their thighs pressed together and against one another in order to fit on the stool; shifting about a bit in discomfort at first, then halting at the realisation that the other could feel every fidget and twitch against their own leg.

‘So…’ Said Jimmy with a sniff. ‘…what is it you can play?’

Thomas reached out with slightly trembling fingers to experimentally press at some of the keys in front of him. ‘Well…’

‘You don’t know how to play at all do you?’ Said Jimmy bluntly.

Thomas gave him a highly sheepish sideways glance that resulted in the both of them snorting with laughter in the otherwise silent hall.

‘Alright, I’ll show you a little.’ Said Jimmy grudgingly, wiping away tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes.

Thomas had absolutely no aptitude for it. That much was clear to Jimmy in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t keep time at all, alternating between moving his fingers too fast and too slow, sometimes missing the key he desired entirely, and his memory seemed unable to cope with the recollection of even the most simple and short sequence of notes.

But there was something about the way that Thomas’s fingers handled the keys, hesitantly, softly, reverentially, that had Jimmy persisting with the makeshift lesson simply in order to watch them.

‘God I really am just…’ Thomas turned his head to Jimmy, ready to comment self depreciatingly on the particularly uneven sound he had produced from the piano on his last attempt.

But Jimmy had no interest in hearing Thomas’s assessment of how bad he was at the piano. The sustained closeness and contact had inflamed in him an urge that refused to be suppressed.

Closing the negligible distance between their faces, Jimmy pressed his lips against Thomas’s.

‘…terrible.’ Thomas concluded in shock as Jimmy pulled away from him. ‘Jimmy…?’ He whispered in disbelief, raising a hand to touch his lips where Jimmy’s had been a moment ago.

Jimmy grasped Thomas’s wrist, directing it downwards, as he leant in for another kiss.

‘Mmmh!’ Thomas murmured, as much in protest as appreciation, caught utterly off guard. But he didn’t pull away; finding in the softness and warmth of Jimmy’s mouth a kind of comfort he had never felt before, and a powerful surge of pride at the knowledge that Jimmy, easily the only person in Downton that Thomas felt worthy of respect, had chosen to share this particularly intimate act with him.

Thomas did however pull away as his hand, wrist still held tightly in Jimmy’s grip, was brought down to brush against the front of Jimmy’s trousers.

‘What…?’ He began, moving to get up off the stool but soon abandoning the endeavour as a sharp yank at his wrist compelled him to stay put; his hand still held against Jimmy’s crotch.

Jimmy slid his palm over the top of Thomas’s hand, guiding his fingers to curl over his penis, the shape of which was thinly disguised by the fabric of Jimmy’s trousers and underwear. ‘You know what to do with one of these, don’t you?’ He whispered hoarsely in Thomas’s ear, pressing Thomas’s hand firmly downwards. ‘Oh come on, don’t pretend like you don’t rub yourself off in your room at night.’ He said as Thomas’s hand remained tense and immobile.

‘Well…yes.’ Thomas said weakly. ‘But I don’t see what that’s got to do with…’

‘Haven’t I been kind to you?’ Said Jimmy, guiding Thomas’s unwilling hand down further between his legs. ‘Wouldn’t you say I’ve been kind?’

‘You have.’ Thomas agreed, grimacing in discomfort as Jimmy dragged his hand up again.

‘So how about you be kind to me?’

Thomas’s eyes met his, awash with confusion.

‘Well isn’t this cosy?’

Both Thomas and Jimmy sprang apart and away from each other, coming to stand to attention at either side of the piano, before recognising that the interloper, Miss O’Brien, did not strictly speaking merit such treatment.

‘I’ve been obliging young Thomas here with a lesson.’ Said Jimmy pleasantly.

Thomas glanced at him in surprise, finding Jimmy’s voice impossibly level and unaffected given what had occurred between them a moment earlier.

‘It’s probably time to turn in now though.’ Thomas said, his voice coming out hoarse despite his attempt to mimic Jimmy’s nonchalance. ‘So I’ll…I’ll say goodnight to you both.’ He said quickly, giving only the most cursory nod before escaping out into the corridor.

Miss O’Brien watched him go, an amused glint in her eye, before turning back to Jimmy.

‘Well…’ She said with a smile, letting the single word linger ominously in the air.

‘What can I do, eh?’ Said Jimmy dismissively, giving a theatrical shrug of his shoulders. ‘He’s forever demanding attention that one.’ He sighed. ‘I wish he wouldn’t.’

‘I see.’ Said Miss O’Brien slowly. ‘I suppose it’s only natural that a young man would want to spend time with his hero…’ Her choice of words bringing a glow to Jimmy’s face. ‘…especially when he has so much to teach him.’

Jimmy eyed O’Brien warily, finding something deliberate and disquieting in her turn of phrase, but she seemed pleasant enough as she bid him goodnight a moment later.

**

Thomas didn’t know what to think about the events of the previous evening, but convinced himself upon waking the following morning that Jimmy would be able to enlighten him.

All day he searched for a moment to speak to him, but Jimmy seemed especially busy. Or at least, spent a lot of time very visible among the other staff in an effort to appear busy. He also seemed much louder than usual; speaking with Daisy and Ivy particularly raucously so as to be heard all the way from the kitchens to the servant’s hall as they shared ‘private’ jokes.

Thomas was comforted by the fact he wasn’t the only one to have noticed Jimmy’s unusually extroverted behaviour; as he stood surreptitiously watching Jimmy throughout the day, his eyes often met Alfred’s as the latter did the same. Scowling.

Thomas thought perhaps he ought to leave Jimmy to it, reasoning that if Jimmy _wanted_ to speak to him, he would. And truth be told, the odd events of the previous evening, especially the strangely claustrophobic feeling of being crowded by Jimmy and, in hindsight (much to Thomas’s surprise, given his discomfort during the encounter itself), a half-formed yearning for more of the same, had Thomas sufficiently confused that he reasoned the chance to sleep on the matter for another night (given that a powerful desire for masturbation had kept him up most of the previous night) would probably serve him well.

He would avoid Jimmy that evening, and reassess in the morning. A simple, yet workable plan.

But force of habit still had him lingering in the corridor before the footmen swept upstairs for the dinner service, eager for another glance of Jimmy before commencing his evening’s duties.

You could have knocked Thomas down with a feather at the moment he realised it was _Alfred_ leading out with the meat course rather than Jimmy.

He stood there, mouth agape, as Jimmy stomped into view.

‘It’s a flipping insult. Just because he’s ten feet tall…’ Thomas heard Jimmy mutter angrily as he passed.

He knew he should keep quiet, knew he should just let Jimmy go on his way, knew he had no place to comment. But Jimmy was upset, and Thomas wanted to help.

‘You’re right.’ He said, speaking quietly so that the others wouldn’t hear.

Jimmy turned to him with a face like thunder. ‘I’ve a good mind to…’

‘Shhh.’ Thomas whispered quickly. ‘These things can be managed.’ He said, fearing above all that Jimmy in his present state may do something inherently stupid, perhaps even compromising his employ; and _that_ possibility Thomas most definitely wouldn’t entertain. ‘But not by losing your temper.’

To Thomas’s relief, Jimmy _did_ seem mildly less aggravated as he resumed his progress to the stairs.

But Thomas’s relief was short lived.

One glance at the look Mr Carson was giving Alfred and Jimmy in the servant’s hall later that night (not to mention the looks they were giving each other) told Thomas that the dinner service had most definitely _not_ gone well.

The problem, soon made apparent to everyone at the servant’s dinner, was that Alfred had dropped food in the Dowager’s lap.

And somehow it was Jimmy’s fault.

Thomas didn’t doubt that it _had_ been Jimmy’s fault, but he simultaneously resented the way everybody instantly _assumed_ it was Jimmy’s fault without anything by way of evidence.

Mercifully, it was precisely that lack of evidence that forestalled any punishment from Mr Carson. But the damage to Jimmy’s already poor regard amongst the staff was done nonetheless.

To add insult to injury, Carson even went so far as to agree to Alfred attending the pictures with Ivy the following night as planned, only giving him the most minor of cautions.

It wasn’t fair.

Having been on the receiving end of such blatant unfairness ever since he set foot in the door at Downton, Thomas knew that the one thing he would have most liked to have was someone else to _notice_ that the treatment was unfair.

**

Thomas knocked softly on Jimmy’s bedroom door before pushing it open, finding Jimmy sat at his desk in his pyjamas, furiously scrubbing at a stain on his collar.

‘Thomas I’m not in the mood to talk.’ Said Jimmy flatly, his eyes fixed on Thomas as though fearing what he might do were his attention elsewhere.

‘I know.’ Said Thomas quickly. ‘So I’ll be brief.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘I just wanted you to know that I don’t think it’s right that Alfred didn’t get in more trouble for spilling food.’

‘You can say that again.’ Jimmy concurred dryly with a raise of his eyebrows.

‘And I don’t think it’s right that everyone…thinks badly of you because of what Alfred did.’

Jimmy sighed and nodded, still watching Thomas intently, absently running his fingers over the stubborn collar on his desk.

‘I just thought you should know.’ Thomas concluded softly.

‘Thank you Thomas.’ Said Jimmy, offering a weak smile. ‘I appreciate that.’

Thomas took a few steps back over to the door, before halting, not wanting to leave.

‘I was going to say that you’re the better man compared to Alfred…’ Thomas joked, compelled to find something else to say by way of excuse to remain in the room, by Jimmy. ‘…but that’s so self-evident I don’t think I need to.’

Jimmy gave a light chuckle.

‘I mean…’ Thomas continued. ‘…Alfred barely knows which spoon is which, let alone how to wind a clock or play piano or…’ He stopped, cheeks suddenly hot.

For a moment both he and Jimmy directed their gaze to the floor.

‘Did you…’ Jimmy said slowly. ‘…did you enjoy the lesson the other night?’

‘I don’t know.’ Said Thomas honestly.

Jimmy gave a bitter snort of laughter. ‘You don’t know? Perfect.’ He turned back to tending the stain on his collar. ‘Close the door behind you on your way out.’

‘No, I…’ Thomas stuttered in panic at the unappealing thought of his own dark and empty bedroom. ‘I’d like to stay…for just a little while…if I may?’

‘Why do you want to stay Thomas?’ Said Jimmy, his shoulders tense as he sat hunched over the desk.

‘I just want to make sure you’re alright after today.’ Said Thomas in a small voice. ‘Because you’re the most remarkable, dedicated and worthwhile person in this whole household and you don’t deserve to be made unhappy by people who…’

His words were cut off by the insistent press of Jimmy’s mouth against his as Jimmy rose from his chair and grabbed Thomas to him in one fluid and impossibly fast motion.

‘You were saying?’ Jimmy whispered through a feral grin as he briefly released Thomas’s lips, only to immediately lean back in to claim them afresh.

‘I…I don’t know.’ Said Thomas, his breaths catching in his throat as both his body and mind demanded to know just what the devil was happening.

‘But you know what to _do_ , don’t you?’ Jimmy murmured against his lips.

‘No.’

Lost and panicked, as much by the notion of staying as of being cast out, Thomas could think of no other answer.

A sound that could have equally been an amused giggle or a cruel sneer escaped from Jimmy’s lips.

Thomas stood, spellbound, barely breathing at all, as Jimmy reached around to untie the back of the apron he still hadn’t taken off from the day’s labours. He didn’t move a muscle as Jimmy moved on to the buttons down his shirt front.

Jimmy moved in to kiss him again, a tender kiss that lingered, gently encouraging Thomas to respond in kind as Jimmy parted his lips just enough to add a thin sheen of saliva to both their lips, as he tugged Thomas’s shirt off his shoulders.

Thomas watched in astonishment as Jimmy broke away to pull his own pyjama top off over his head, finding it one thing to allow himself to be undressed by Jimmy, but quite another for Jimmy to thrown himself into the mix too. His eyes traced over Jimmy’s stomach and chest, nothing he hadn’t seen before but this time he was seemingly being given leave to look. And it was a wonderful sight.

Although it did leave him a little self-conscious about his own thin pale frame, speckled with wiry black hair.

But Jimmy didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, he seemed determined to expose all of it.

His own trousers and underpants already round his ankles on the floor, Thomas stood, mouth agape, as Jimmy discarded his pyjama trousers.

He couldn’t help but look.

‘You going to get on the bed then?’ Said Jimmy, suddenly keeping a very deliberate distance between them (with a noticeable lack of kisses) now that they were both naked.

In that moment Thomas understood.

Not that he hadn’t had an inkling beforehand; but he hadn’t allowed his mind to fully entertain the possibility without some kind of confirmation.

Jimmy wanted him. And not just as a friend or sycophant. Jimmy _wanted_ him. Wanted him in the way that anyone would strive to be wanted by the object of their admiration.

It was a concept Thomas had been introduced to early on during his time at Downton; having walked in on Lord and Lady Grantham in a compromising position while setting the fire in their room in the early morning. Miss O’Brien had been kind enough to explain, back when she still had the time of day for him, about what he had seen, the rudiments of what happened during, and that it was what (simply put) husbands and wives _do_.

Thomas had known for a long time he would never have a wife.

But the current situation presented a heart soaringly attractive alternative; _he_ would be Jimmy’s.

And the notion of Jimmy wanting to share something so intimate and important with him, a pathetic creature by comparison to Jimmy’s accomplishments in every regard, had Thomas willingly lying down on his back with his legs spread open.

**

From the foot of the bed, Jimmy’s eyes raked over the sight of Thomas laid out before him (shameless as a whore, was the comparison that came to mind, not that Jimmy had ever used the services of one). He resisted the urge to mock Thomas for his false protestations of innocence; deciding that was a conversation that could wait until he had done something about the erection currently nestled, pointing skywards, at his belly.

‘On your front.’ Jimmy said.

His arousal rising at the sight of Thomas’s immediate compliance, Jimmy slid onto the bed behind him. Briefly covering Thomas’s body with his own, wanting to feel their skin together (though to what end he had no idea) and planting a small kiss at the nape of Thomas’s neck, Jimmy drew back to position himself at Thomas’s rear.

Tugging at himself briefly to ensure he was fully up to the task, Jimmy lined himself up at the hole Thomas had so willingly made available to him. And promptly slid straight over it, missing entirely, coming to rest between Thomas’s buttocks.

He tried again, pushing hard enough to draw a gasp from Thomas, but ultimately failing, unable to gain enough purchase to guide himself in; his penis slipping uselessly over Thomas’s cleft.

Jimmy grunted in frustration. Clasping himself in hand once more, poised at Thomas’s backside, he thrust determinedly at the entrance which seemed to him impossibly small, but which it _must_ be possible to get inside if his limited understanding of the particulars was correct.

Jimmy managed to sheath just the very tip at the moment where Thomas let out the pained breath he had been holding, drawing out a surprised exclamation from the latter.

‘Relax.’ Demanded Jimmy, almost at the verge of hurting _himself_ in his abortive efforts to feed the rest of his penis inside. ‘Bloody relax, Thomas.’

‘I _can’t_.’ Thomas whimpered back miserably, his cheek finding dampness on the pillow as his eyes watered. He wanted to relax, wanted to help Jimmy achieve his goal, wanted the return of that warm weight against his body, but he just couldn’t. He was agitated and in pain, and his body was having none of it.

He buried his face in the pillow, muffling his shouts, as Jimmy continued to attempt to breach him; making shallow thrusts that barely constituted entry, rubbing them both painfully raw.

Deciding to go for broke, realising he would be compromising himself as much as Thomas in the process, Jimmy made another powerful attempt to push past the resistance.

It worked.

Jimmy felt Thomas’s muscles slacken at the force of the thrust, abandoning attempts to keep him out, as indeed Thomas’s whole body seemed to shudder and grow limp as he buried himself, without preamble, completely inside. Thomas howled into the pillow, fists clenched in pain around it as he felt the rest of his body give up it’s fight; leaving him open to hot intrusion that seemed ten times the size it had been upon first viewing, stretching it’s way inside.

Jimmy moaned in relieved satisfaction as he slid his arousal into the passage that remained tight despite the breaching of the defensive muscles, the inside of Thomas a hot and caressing delight against the sensitive skin of his penis, the sight of Thomas’s shuddering shoulders as he lay supplicant beneath him stirring him inside…

It was too much.

His fingers clenched tight around Thomas’s hips in shock as suddenly every muscle in his own body grew tense to the point of bursting, heralding an immediate, shuddering, orgasm.

Jimmy waited for a moment, his breathing laboured and ragged, cheeks flaming in shame at his own shortcomings, not to mention the situation as a whole, skin crawling unpleasantly as his arousal abated.

He extracted himself from Thomas, who lay dutifully still beneath him, and looked down in disgust at the mess between them.

‘You should go.’ He said sharply to Thomas as he jumped up off the bed.

‘What?’ Thomas said wetly, unable at that time to accomplish even the relatively simple task of closing his legs, blinking back tears and swallowing back phlegm as he raised his head from the pillow. ‘What happened? Did I do something wrong?’

‘You have to go.’ Said Jimmy tersely, turning away from the sight of Thomas reaching a hand down behind himself to investigate the root of his discomfort; his fingers coming away slicked with a substance that could not be mistaken for any other.

‘Did you…?’ Thomas began, looking at his hand in bewilderment.

‘Get going!’ Jimmy snapped. ‘Come on…’ Disregarding his own nudity, he quickly gathered up Thomas’s discarded clothing. ‘It’s late.’ He said, throwing Thomas’s clothes at him.

‘Why are you angry with me?’ Said Thomas meekly. ‘What did I do?’

‘Get out!’ Jimmy shouted. Speaking with such force that Thomas immediately forced his sore and unsteady body up and out of the bed, across the room and out into the (thankfully) empty corridor his clothes clutched in a bundle to his chest.

The moment the bedroom door closed, Jimmy collapsed to the floor. Drawing his knees up tight against his chest, he buried his head and cried.

**

The next day Thomas went about his usual tasks (with difficulty, it must be said) feeling the grim pangs of failure dogging his every move.

He wished Jimmy would talk to him. But Jimmy seemed determined to avoid speaking to everyone that day, not just him.

As he cleaned floors, built fires, fetched and carried for the entire household, Thomas fantasised that late that night, just as all hope was lost, Jimmy would come tapping at his bedroom door; pulling him in close for a tender kiss, parting his legs with gentle hands to lie down over him, face to face, slipping inside him easily without pain, remaining there for hours. Or, at the very least, knock at his door to bid him goodnight.

 _Then_ he would know he was forgiven for…whatever it was that he’d done.

He didn’t _know_ what he’d done, he only knew that he’d failed at it.

The evening found him sat alone in the servant’s hall, staring more at the blank wall ahead rather than at the book in front of him.

A shuffling noise had him breaking his trance, returning unwillingly to reality from the depths of a particularly potent fantasy.

Thomas’s heart leapt to his throat as he recognised the familiar figure of Jimmy (otherwise elusive throughout the entire day) suddenly appearing in the doorway.

He didn’t let himself get too excited; there was every chance that Jimmy simply needed to order him to do something, or would simply turn and walk away upon seeing him in the servant’s hall, or…

‘Where is everyone?’

…the third, and most unexpected, option; actually strike up a conversation.

‘Gone to bed.’ Thomas replied. ‘Except for the picture-goers, they’re not back yet.’

Jimmy nodded, raising the tea cup from the saucer in his hands as he met Thomas’s gaze as easily as he had done days before. ‘You know, if I’d dropped a bucket of slop in the old lady’s lap, I wouldn’t be going to the flicks.’

‘What are you saying?’ Said Thomas, knowing the answer full well but eager to keep the unexpected conversation going for as long as possible.

‘That Mr Carson doesn’t like me.’ He said with a hint of a grimace, but otherwise still speaking perfectly pleasantly, perfectly easily, as though nothing at all had happened. ‘No matter what Alfred does, he still prefers him. It isn’t bloody fair.’

‘Well I love you.’ Thomas said, deliberately keeping his voice light so as to allow the assertion to be dismissed as a friendly joke, while internally hoping that Jimmy would take it as proof that his interest in him (however murkily the purpose of that interest may be defined) still remained; leading them into a much needed deconstruct of their attempted love making.

‘Well if you do you’re on your own.’ Said Jimmy, bright but dismissive.

Thomas visibly shrank back into his chair.

‘Anyway…’ Said Jimmy quickly as footsteps approached from down the corridor. ‘I ought to be getting off to bed.’

Thomas nodded, unable to vocalise the appropriate goodnight sentiments.

Thoughts that his mood couldn’t possibly sink lower, as he watched Jimmy leave the hall, were soon challenged by the appearance of Miss O’Brien.

‘Cosy again I see.’ She said breezily as she walked to the table to collect the book she had discarded earlier.

Thomas looked darkly up at her.

‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.’ She said slyly, taking a seat at the table. ‘I know what’s going on.’

‘You’re quite wrong Miss O’Brien.’ Said Thomas dully, disinclined to enter into anything by way of discussion.

‘There’s no need to bark.’ Said O’Brien. ‘I only know what Alfred tells me.’

‘What are you going on about?’ Thomas said, his words coming out pained and weary.

‘Alfred says he’s always talking about you.’ She replied softly.

Thomas blinked and pretended to be reading his book.

‘Alfred thinks his intentions might not be proper.’ O’Brien continued, watching Thomas’s jaw-line tense at her words. ‘But then…we both know you’re not proper either, don’t we?’ She didn’t wait for a response, correctly deducing that there wouldn’t be one, before adding. ‘And if I were you I wouldn’t keep the poor man hanging about.’ She rose to her feet, smiling sweetly. ‘How’s he going to know if you don’t tell him?’

While Miss O’Brien’s suspicions missed the mark (only insomuch as he and Jimmy having surpassed anything she could have possibly comprehended), Thomas was forced to grudgingly concede that she may have a point.

Did he need to tell Jimmy, in black and white, that he wanted him too?

Thinking back, Thomas realised that his hesitation at the piano, his silence during their (attempted) lovemaking, his joking assertion of ‘I love you’ may very well have left Jimmy confused and feeling like he needed to back off. Because why would he act like that unless _he_ was unsure?

That was it, Thomas thought to himself as he undressed and got into his pyjamas that night.

It was so simple Thomas couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

Jimmy was afraid Thomas didn’t want _him_.

**

The simple realisation came with an equally simple solution.

Minutes later Thomas quietly picked his way barefoot over the floorboards to Jimmy’s bedroom.

He hesitated at the door, seeing that the lights were out. But his certainty compelled him onwards, gently opening the door and slipping inside before closing it softly behind himself.

Jimmy was laid out on his bed, his face the very picture of tranquillity and beauty. And he was beautiful, Thomas thought to himself as he took some deep breaths to steel himself before sitting down on the bed.

He leant forwards, heart pounding, his every sense singing in anticipation, as he tenderly touched his lips to Jimmy’s.

Beneath him, Jimmy stirred. Responding dreamily to the kiss.

Thomas closed his eyes, mind full of the joy of the moment and the promise of what was to come.

‘I know it’s late Jimmy, but I’ve got to…’

Thomas’s heart stopped as the door to Jimmy’s room swung open.

‘Oh my…’ Alfred exclaimed.

Jimmy began to frantically flail beneath him. ‘Get off! Get the bloody hell off me!’

Thomas quickly stood up, at a loss for words entirely, let alone an explanation.

‘Alfred, it’s not what you think!’ Jimmy angrily declared.

‘Don’t do that.’ Thomas heard himself saying, his voice sounding as lost as he felt. ‘Alfred doesn’t matter…’ He asserted, wondering why Jimmy was so vehement in his assertions given that he had _spoken_ to Alfred about how much he liked him.

‘What are you doing?’ Jimmy demanded of Thomas, muscles tense, the veins in his throat visibly protruding, as he confronted him with white-hot anger in his eyes. ‘Why are you in here?’

‘Because of what you said.’ Thomas replied desperately, moving to take Jimmy’s face soothingly between his hands. ‘Because of all there is between us…’

‘There’s nothing between us…’ Jimmy declared, shoving Thomas back with such ferocity that he collided with the bureau a good few feet away. ‘…except my fists if you don’t get out!’

‘But…’ Thomas tried again, pushing himself gingerly up off of the hard edge of the bureau.

Jimmy replied, as promised, with his fists.

Though inexpertly landed, the first punch caught Thomas sufficiently off guard that he fell; landing hard on the floor. Dropping down beside him, Jimmy attacked his torso before moving on to his face.

Thomas dimly registered, through the hands he had thrown up to defend his face, that Alfred had vanished.

Snarling in rage at his inability to hit Thomas’s face through the desperate protective shield of his hands, Jimmy briefly jumped up to stamp down hard between Thomas’s legs. Thomas’s hand’s immediately relocated, allowing Jimmy to descend upon him, breaking knuckles repeatedly against tender flesh.

Alfred reappeared in the doorway seconds later with Mr Carson in tow, but both men elected to allow Jimmy appropriate recompense for the indignity done to him that night; the majority of the distinguishing features of Thomas’s face split and cracked away by the time that Jimmy’s anger was spent.


End file.
